Bloodlines
by lonaj
Summary: Count Gregory meddles in our heroes' sex lives
1. Default Chapter

Title: Bloodlines  
Author: Lona Jennings  
Category: Action/adventure  
Characters: Phileas, Jules, Rebecca, Passepartout, Count  
Gregory and several of my own  
Rating: PG-13. A few swear words. Not too good at deciding ratings.  
Archive: DO NOT ARCHIVE or otherwise display on any Web page without author's express permission. Do not forward to any other news group or mailing list. May be redistributed to individual readers as long as Lona Jennings is acknowledged as author and nothing of value is exchanged.  
Spoilers: Brief mentions of events from In the Beginning and Southern Comfort. Story is not episode related.  
Crossovers: Sort of, with Ian Fleming's James Bond (not an obsession of mine, so I may be off on the references.)  
Summary: Count Gregory meddles in our heroes' sex lives.  
Jules/non-cast character romance. Implied Phileas/Rebecca attraction. Implied m/f sexual activity with non-cast character.  
  
*.*.*  
  
Miss Moneypenny sighed blissfully. M had once more summoned double oh seven. Soon James would breeze through her office, lightly kiss her cheek and hoax her about her love life. Or at least she hoped he would soon arrive at British Secret Service headquarters. One could never tell how long double oh seven might take to come in from the cold.  
  
In the meantime, one of W's inspirations had landed on Miss Moneypenny's desk in the shape of a small oak chest full of yellowed papers and journals recounting a mission almost a century and a half in the past. W wanted to clear out Secret Service dead storage, but Service policy dictated nothing could be tossed. So hundreds of chests, boxes and tins of very early Service documents had to be entered on the computer and indexed. Every secretary in the building had received a share.  
  
The handwritten pages in Miss Moneypenny's particular chest would all have to be keyboarded into the database. It would be slow. Just reading the faded copperplate script took a while. Fortunately, the mission her chest contained seemed anything but tedious. In addition to a miscellany of Service documents, the wooden box held the personal papers of two of the Service's earliest agents, Rebecca and Phileas Fogg. Hmm, not husband and wife, at least not at the time of this mission, but cousins and related to the Secret Service's founder, Sir Boniface Fogg.  
  
The chest also contained journals captured from something called the League of Darkness (now if that didn't sound familiar -- some things never change), a small collection of stiffly posed ferrotypes and, of all things, an unpublished journal of Jules Verne.  
  
Miss Moneypenny had already sorted the papers by date into some semblance of order. "Let's see," she asked herself, "what comes first?" Well, chronologically that must be the League of Darkness journal entry by the Doctor Garridan bloke. A ferrotype of the doctor showed an ordinary looking man, with an unlined face and either ash blond or white hair. He stood with a definite stoop. Despite the bland face, Miss Moneypenny decided after reading ahead a few paragraphs, Doctor Garridan must have been an unpleasant sort.  
  
She began typing.  
  
*.*.*  
  
Ten years have I survived as Count Gregory's chief scientist. Freedom to execute my theories has been worth the steep price of this subservience. Respecting knowledge, I now discern more universal truths than recorded in all scientific journals ever written, and may freely use this knowledge to explore further. What more could a true scientific mind request?  
  
Life is a survival from moment to moment under the best conditions. I but use the Count's victims for the highest purpose - acquisition of knowledge, of which our chief endeavor bodes fair to create a whole new field, the study of breeding human excellence. Eugenics, we call it.  
  
Perfection has proved hard to come by, although our many failures serve a purpose and the quasi-humans are well suited to crash testing. The lesser animals we eat from time to time. The hominids are particularly tasty.  
  
Three weeks ago I was the unfortunate who must needs inform Count Gregory his seed produced not viable results. "Mutants?" he thundered. "I father naught but imperfection?" I thought he surely would take my head.  
  
"We need a less venerable bloodline than yours," I suggested. "Perhaps we could study your enemies through their progeny, discover the weaknesses of their breed and what turns it from your path of truth." I know this plan appealed, as the Count now holds it as his own. He selected two enemies for test subjects and is quite enthralled with procuring their offspring as his pets.   
  
The addition of the selected bloodlines should significantly enhance our breeding, adding cunning in the one line and brilliance in the other. I only grieve Mabius Bonander heads the project in the field. He tries the Count's patience and mine as well. Today, Bonander reported on status. That fool cannot condense a thought to less than a dozen sentences and with the Count verbosity is not a virtue.  
  
" . . . and so we feel we can apply the lemur studies to . . ." Bonander's voice monotonously droned.  
  
The Count's arms flailed upon their poles. "Enough of that," he said. "Have you arranged the pairings I specified? Are the females in place and the bait set?"  
  
"One inamorata has long been established in Paris, Count. The other soon joins her. Good Doctor Garridan here warrants no human male can resist their attractant musk. I confess my belle-soeur even attracts me, although I well know her witchy temper. And of course, the medication that ensures impregnation we've administered the required days. They should both take upon their first bedding. If I may say so, I'm sure . . ."  
  
"No, fool, you may not say another word that does not answer my question!" Count Gregory warned him.  
  
Bonander had the good sense to cringe and bowed several times as he continued. "Forgive me, master, I beg you. British agents captured our baited courier last night. It should ensure the interest of the Service. In Paris arrangements will be completed this day. We shall have the two human specimens bred and immured at the Auvergne propagation site by the end of the month."  
  
I made bold to query Bonander, "What guarantees the assignment of the Foggs to pursue your clue?"  
  
Bonander's lips pursed and his plump cheeks puffed out, "Never fear, Doctor Garridan, our double agent is well placed to create that necessity." Mabius and I do not get on well. I'm sure he names me "hunchback freak" behind my back. But I shall prevail in the end. After Bonander departed, the Count ordered five vials of morphine, one for each of his sections. Agitation had torn a few of his small repairs loose. He sometimes suffers such setbacks. Underlings that cause them shortly disappear.  
  
*.*.*  
  
"Oh no, a mole!" Miss Moneypenny said aloud. The dread of every Secret Service employee! She flipped rapidly through the other papers. No, none of the chest's documents revealed the mole's name. Shaking her head in disappointment, she returned the Garridan journal to the chest. Making a decision she began entering the next document.  
  
*.*.*  
  
(Note scribbled at top of sheet.) Captured communiqué, forwarded to Secret Service headquarters maximum speed.  
  
Agent's cover note: Dispatch acquired Austria by agent Keelan Norward from suspected League of Darkness courier. Courier dead, Agent Norward minor wound.  
  
Communique, League code #16 (Broken): Mendel heredity studies confirm ours. Bonander arrives Paris to arrange details of next stage. Auvergne preparation nears completion.  
  
*.*.*  
  
Miss Moneypenny smiled in anticipation. Next should be this entry from Phileas Fogg's private journal. (A very private journal, if Moneypenny was any judge, and she was!) His picture showed a lean, dark man whose intense, thickly lashed eyes seemed to scorn the camera, the cameraman and everything in the room. Even through the hundred and forty years that lay between them she could feel his sexual charisma. Rather reminded one of double oh seven, in a top hat, of course. It seemed unlikely, but yes maybe it was . . . Jules Verne's hero of Around the World in 80 Days come to life. Miss Moneypenny again began to type.  
  
*.*.*  
  
My heart still beats rapidly. When I awoke I could not breathe. A pale horse has coursed my dreams again, the third night in a row. The stallion galloped through the daylight dappled woods of Shillingworth Magna and then into smothering, everlasting night. Death rode bareback upon it, and darkest Hell followed close behind. Or so it felt. Something ill shortly visits me and mine.  
  
Damn these prophetic dreams. If I tell Passepartout, he will think his master invades the morphine supply. And yesterday I could not tell Rebecca. She seemed perturbed enough just at my gruff manner and during our passage from England exercised a motherly role, not in lecture but in sidewise looks and tiny twitches of that strong mouth. I suppose I did appear sadly put together. The dreams have robbed me of much sleep. She would have likely theorized delirium tremens hallucinations, although the phantasy has not that feel.  
  
My thoughts are fixed on Rebecca's latest tasking. Upon our Paris landfall yester eve, she asked my aid saying, "My plot needs a clever man fit for romance." I'm sure she truly needs me not, but once more with labor seeks to save me from my demons, and I consent to join because she asks. Fiends will chase whither I go, so let it be for her.  
  
Her present mission seems more outré than most, something involving heredity or monsters, very will-o'-the-wisp. Why Rebecca always receives the phantastical assignments I can only attribute to Jonathan's dread of defeat. Rebecca seldom fails. I shall never forgive Father for promoting to power that file clerk Chatsworth, for I have no doubt the man will eventually get Rebecca killed. If she would but hear me on this and be on her guard, it would greatly ease my mind, but childish she labels my concerns. And at Chatsworth's instigation Rebecca has sworn me to damnable secrecy, supposedly to prevent enemy discovery. Chatsworth sees double agents behind every door save his own, the more fool he.  
  
As my part in Rebecca's plan, I am to gain access to the Bonander household and eventually their estate in Auvergne, so tomorrow I have a baroness to romance. Fortunately there is no longer a husband, but from what I've heard of Cynara, I shall have sufficient challenge to require all my resources. The most enticing, lovely widow of the season, Monsieur Montrone named her last week. She has her choice of all Paris, as every man's heart swoons helpless at her feet. If I fix her interest, how long can I keep it?  
  
In the meanwhile, Rebecca scouts Auvergne covertly, having taken the train today at noon. If there is trouble, only Passepartout shall watch my back. Despite the absurdity that often cloaks him, Jean is a good man, none better. He shall be more than enough, and after all, what harm can come from romance?  
  
*.*.*  
  
Apparently, I'm not the only one attracted to Phileas Fogg, Miss Moneypenny thought as she started another entry from a second League of Darkness journal, this one by a Baroness named Cynara Bonander.  
  
*.*.*  
  
Beautiful. Fogg is beautiful, a powerful stallion of a man, taunt with energy and passions that only the strongest hand shall control. Mabius told me to acquire his breeding, but nothing of his person. I feared he would be as my beau-frere, short, fat and a fool. But Fogg proved none of that. He measures a head taller than I, and a dark man, dark eyes, dark beard, dark soul. His presentation is the most fashionable, and his firm body fits ecstatically in my secret places.  
  
He overwhelmed on first introduction. His smile melted this cold heart. The Russian Ambassador introduced him saying, "Baroness Bonander, I would like to present the chanciest man I know, Mr. Phileas Fogg." Looking down at me from his great height, Phileas's eyes locked mine. "Baroness," his voice hummed my title. Then he paid my fingertips attention of the most exquisite sort. Dropping my customary façade of cool reserve, I cried, "Oh, I have so longed to meet you! You possess that wondrous bateau de ciel we see so often over Paris, n'est pas?"  
  
Since then Fogg believes he plies me for my secrets, and I make him pay with his body, a fair arrangement, pleasure for us both as the net result. I confess he has captured the brief remnant of my heart. Phileas is mine and I yield him to no other, until I am surely bred and we're compelled to put him down. And if that ill task must be done by me, I shall remember Fogg's life is worth the stability of the world.  
  
I may already be gravid, as I have missed my time this month. As Mabius ordered I partake each day a medicine to guarantee this purpose and a fresh supply of that arrived yesterday when he delivered little Clarice.  
  
Clarice, that is a pretty little problem. Mabius selected the little twit from his stable of nieces, probably for her air of virginity. Innocence for the innocent, Mabius said. A merry dance shall I perform to put her in Verne's path. And if she does not like him, it will be a chancy business. Even mesmerized, she is a willful little thing. Whatever I say, you may be sure she purposes something else. For example, I had to dissolve her fertility medication in this morning's tea. Mabius says she is already well primed with it, so perhaps that is good enough.  
  
Last night Mabius mesmerized Clarice again and implanted certain key words I may use to unlock her will. "Verne is such a beauty," I say and then I may instruct her course. But Verne has yet to appear and I may not inquire as Fogg has not mentioned his name. I have asked Phileas to provide a suitable partner for Clarice at tonight's reception. Perhaps this will produce the elusive Verne.  
  
I miss the services of my Phileas. I told him relatives visited, and he has stayed far back, sending only his manservant with brief notes. But tonight I see him and must soon begin to dress. The new blue gown, I think, and the blue diamonds. He shall compare me to the summer sky. Where is that scented water Mabius bids me wear for Fogg's delectation?  
  
*.*.*  
  
In her youth Miss Moneypenny had gone through a Jules Verne phase and had read every single one of his books still in print, so it was with some excitement that she began on her next selection, a portion of the Jules Verne journal. She thought, "No wonder Verne wrote such romantic stories! The man had the heart of a love poet!"  
  
*.*.*  
  
I am in love! I have met perfection and her name is Clarice. I believe I shall throw open the shutters of my humble garret and sing it out into the rouge and gold morning.  
  
Ahh, that feels better.  
  
Yesterday morn, Fogg sent Passepartout round to my garret with an invitation to partner him at a British embassy social evening for Monsieur de Lessup, the famous Suez Canal architect. Rebecca was away on an undercover mission, Jean explained and, "Master think you admire de Lessup, no?"  
  
"So I would be unlikely to embarrass anyone?" I rejoined, but grinned. My maladroit social skills are often a great trial to Fogg.  
  
"No, no," Passepartout answered, "master know this beautiful ladle, Baroness Bonander. She have niece. You and master square them, have good time."  
  
And that we did. Baroness Cynara Bonander has the look of all Fogg's light-of-loves, that is, tall and slender with dark eyes and hair. Fogg paid particular attention to her every word at the de Lessup gathering. He imagines himself in love again, I'm sure. I cannot say I liked the Baroness over much, as when I made my bow to her, she turned to Clarice and said, "That Verne, he is such a beauty. Spend your evening with him, Clarice. You will be rewarded." It seemed overly familiar. I smiled and bowed again to cover my confusion.  
  
But the niece, Miss Clarice Bonander, that beautiful, petite creature. I swear when we first met, she gasped and trembled. I myself forgot to breathe. And when our hands touched, we seemed two sundered halves, re-embodied. The source of this magic I analyze not. It is too sweet.  
  
As to her person, Clarice has the same Titian hair as Rebecca, and much of that same vigorous self-reliance, but with a less boisterous air. She possesses a brilliant mind. We enjoyed a lively discussion on the scientific subject of geology, in which she is a scholar. And like me, she is an ardent admirer of de Lessup. Unfortunately the great man failed to attend the reception, although we waited late for him to appear.  
  
At a very late hour the four of us left the party and retired to the Aurora for a promised "grand tour." There Clarice's discomfiture at being in a single man's private abode could easily be read. After a brief visit to each of Aurora's cabins, except that of sleeping Passepartout, we arrived in the salon. Cynara's manner with Fogg became more intimate, and he addressed me while looking deeply into the Baroness's eyes. "Verne," he said, "Cynara and I plan to take the Aurora up at sunrise. I'm sure Miss Clarice would appreciate your protection on the way home. Do you mind?" Really, the man can be quite insensitive. He plainly wanted solitude with his paramour. However, since we two young people were decidedly de trop, I agreed to this graceless plan; and offering Miss Clarice my arm, departed.  
  
I lit the interior lamp of the Baroness's plush carriage in deference to the awkwardness of our circumstance, and as the coachman whipped up his horses, Miss Clarice broke silence, "Mr. Verne, I fear what you will conceive of me and my family. My Aunt Cynara is a Bonander by marriage. I have been sent to Paris for my debut this season, such as it may be, and Uncle Mabius requires her to tolerate me to retain the townhouse."  
  
"No, Miss Bonander. I must apologize for Mr. Fogg. He's seldom so cavalier to beautiful ladies such as yourself." I lied regarding Fogg's behavior, of course, although not egregiously. Generally, he pays scant heed to others.  
  
"Why, Mr. Verne, what a lovely compliment," Miss Clarice smiled, "but when I look in a mirror, I am aware I am not beautiful. I possess the Bonander family curse of red hair, you see."  
  
"I disagree, mademoiselle," I said. "I have spent many hours in the Louvre before my favorite Titian painting, the Woman with a Mirror. You could be her sister. The same hair, the same sweet face. I have long been in love with her." As I am not usually eloquent with ladies, I attribute last night's fluency to an excess of champagne.  
  
I captured Clarice's hand and boldly kissed it, one finger at a time as I have seen Fogg do. Clarice turned to me and searched my face. The flame of the carriage lamp flickered in her eyes and highlighted her ringletted hair. Many reflected sparks of fire drew me to her, and I gently touched a curl that lay against her soft shoulder. Our lips came together and she did not pull away. For a long moment my tongue savored her inimitable female flavor then the carriage jolted on a high cobble and I awoke to what I did. Instantly I sprang away. We both breathed quickly. But after a few moments my courage revived. My hand stole out and once more took hers. "Coachman! Coachman!" I shouted. "Take us by the Seine." There we considered the shimmer of the full moon upon the water and the mysteries of each other until the stars began to fade and I took her home.  
  
I know not what Clarice thinks of me, but I remain in love. At last in Paris, the city of love, I love.  



	2. Chapter 2

*.*.*  
  
Miss Moneypenny smiled. Verne had been such a romantic. She moved on to Rebecca Fogg, who at least from her cable and most of this first journal entry, seemed to be a very crisp, no-nonsense sort. There was no picture of Rebecca Fogg in the chest . . . there hadn't been of Jules Verne either. Perhaps in a later chest. Miss Fogg's journal entry was dated the same as Jules Verne's.  
  
*.*.*  
  
The cable . . .  
  
To British Secret Service Headquarters, Paris.  
  
Pass code key XXm5678. (Decoded message.) Involvement of Count Gregory confirmed. Facilities Bonander Auvergne site for animal breeding. Arrive Paris tomorrow early morning. Signed, Rebecca Fogg.   
  
From Rebecca Fogg's journal . . .  
  
I shouldn't have left Phileas alone in Paris, that much is clear, and especially shouldn't have set him after Cynara Bonander.  
  
After five days of scouting in Auvergne, I have deduced three things:  
  
First, this is a Count Gregory design. The extensive buildings, railroad spurs and developments bespeak the oceans of money only the League of Darkness can produce.  
  
Second, I inferred only after long study. The Count's current breeding projects are a prelude to a greater goal: an army of perfected warrior beings. Such a long-term plan would be sensible for someone with already 500 years and the expectation of at least 500 more. This plan I deduced in part from a charnel house, the contents of which went unburned one night after I blocked ventilation. Earlier in the day I had watched it filled with bagged bundles. Opened these revealed themselves as grotesque nearly human carcasses. Babies, children, adults, most of them with their heads bashed in, failures one assumes. The sadness of it lay as thick as the stench.  
  
Of the third deduction I remain unsure. The Bonander clan may be involved. I could not gain access to their chateau but in the household trash discovered medication bottles and envelopes labeled "pour assurer la conception" and "pour attirer des hommes."  
  
I must consult with Phileas. Count Gregory may have set Cynara Bonander as a baited hook. If so, should we strike it and follow where it goes?  
  
How easily I forget Phileas's civilian status. Perhaps it would not be wise to put him on such a perilous course. Danger fascinates him so. He plays with his own death as a cat with a mouse. And to tell him Baroness Bonander serves the League of Darkness is more like to send him in hot pursuit, rather than cry him off. If I warn him, will he listen?  
  
*.*.*  
  
Miss Moneypenny glanced at the clock. It was past noontime. Should she pause for a quick bite? No, she just couldn't! The story beckoned, and the next item for entry came from the Phileas Fogg journal! And oh my God the way it began!  
  
*.*.*  
  
In flagrante delicto, "while the fire is blazing." What a ridiculous, polite euphemism for an impossible situation! Not that Rebecca intended to foozle my lovemaking. She would never be so uncouth. I knew that then, and I know it now. So why did we quarrel? The harshness of her words has shaken my heart. My hand still trembles as I drink this brandy. And I don't much care for the labels she assigned me. Libertine I may be, but coward goes too far. I left the Service because I detest its falseness, as she well knows. And I would give my life for her. She knows that too.  
  
My own denunciations scarce bear repeating. Wildly free Rebecca has always been, but "graceless and unnatural" and "uncivilized wanton" were cruel words to use. I would to God I had not said them.  
  
And when Passepartout stumbled from his bed into the middle of our row, I accused him of causing it through careless disregard of his duties. The look on his face as I said those words!  
  
I wonder if for Rebecca this recalled her tryst with Bran Everley. I hope not so, it was long ago and she very young, only seventeen. If Everley had been other than a stable hand, I might even have left them to it. But seeing her on the hay underneath that brute, I assumed the worst. It was fortunate I had only my riding crop to strike him, or I might have broken other than his arm. I suppose it is much to ask that she forget it. I never shall. For three months after she spoke to me only through Erasmus and spent her every free hour with Everley. Cynara's passions are nothing compared to Rebecca's.  
  
The Baroness spoke not during my confrontation with Rebecca but clung to me throughout, as though to claim as much of me as she might. Perhaps we should not have retired to my cabin so soon, but I could not bear to see Rebecca go. And she took all her clothing with her! I tell you truly I am afraid.  
  
After the sound of Rebecca's departure faded, the Baroness and I sat in my cabin, eyeing one another. I poured a tall brandy and drank it down while I thought. Had I been unwise to take this assignment into the boudoir? Had Rebecca tried to signal me a warning? Did she entreat me to end this romance for fair reason? Did I want to? My mind jerked about like a fresh horse on a lead. When Cynara tried to kiss me, I pulled away.  
  
Cynara said, "I see your cousin has not left after all. She's still here with us, isn't she? Perhaps you would prefer her in your bed."  
  
"She is my cousin, Baroness. Nothing more . . . or less," I answered. I went to the door and continued, "I shall see if your coachman has returned."  
  
Should I seek Cynara again? That seems not the question. I must locate Rebecca and apologize for the bitter words spoke this morning, not 'til then shall I rest easy again.  
  
Now it appears Passepartout departed with Rebecca and I have not yet breakfasted or even had my coffee! Devil take Jonathan's paranoia! I should not have obeyed Rebecca's strictures and kept my two most trusted friends in the dark. I'd best get myself over to Verne's hovel. I'm sure that's where Rebecca went and I hope Passepartout with her.  
  
*.*.*  
  
After glancing through the next document for entry, Miss Moneypenny decided she might have to change her mind about Rebecca Fogg. The poor woman did not seem to know herself all that well.  
  
*.*.*  
  
I await Passepartout who seeks temporary storage for my trunks. If he fails, we shall take them to Jules, not as secure from Phileas, but a place nonetheless. I have a few minutes to examine events and discover the workings of my heart.  
  
Why did I let this happen? Why didn't I just shoot that female serpent or roundly tell Phileas of the danger I suspect? Why did I leave?  
  
This is not like me. I am straightforward. I am bold. I take no foolishness from others. I have no fear.  
  
Then why am I in such turmoil? Why did I leave Phileas unprotected and careering headlong on his stubborn, perilous course? Why?  
  
When I arrived at the Aurora, there was no carriage, horses or Passepartout to advise me that Phileas entertained the Baroness. I might have spared us this humiliation if I had but waited for morning to update Phileas, or if I'd done or undone a thousand things. But that is past and I am left with images. Of the sharply defined muscle Phileas hides beneath his elegant clothes. Of the fine hairs on his chest and the dark, smooth skin, and his . . . other parts. I shall not be able to touch him again without that memory. I shall not be able to look him in the eye without seeing what I should not have seen. Or wishing what I should not wish.  
  
And Phileas was not pleased. Although he did not call me unnatural, graceless, and uncouth until I provoked him by demanding the Baroness's immediate departure, and that to her very face. Would I toss out my Lieutenant Price if Phileas broke in on us at our pleasures and that commanded? Or stop a new flirtation only because my cousin asked? I have never done so from my earliest years. Even when he beat Bran Everley into the ground I held my freedom as worth his anger. Perhaps he values his own much the same.  
  
I tried to warn Phileas of his danger but I'm not sure he comprehended or even cared. To defend him I must follow through on this mission and uncover what truth may be had. Until then his best protection is Passepartout, whom I must send back straightaway. I wish Jean had not accompanied me, but I could not forestall him without yet another battle. At the time, that was more than my heart could bear.  
  
And here comes that good man looking glumly. Almost surely his report will be a failure to find storage. A trip to Jules's garret is now required.  
  
*.*.*  
  
Miss Moneypenny's missed lunch had developed into a missed teatime as well. She took a short break, and on the way back ran into QR5 in the hall. She begged the man to bring her a sandwich and coffee. Fortunately, QR5 had a crush on her. In a few minutes, a turkey on white and a tall coffee, black, sat next to the chest. Miss Moneypenny took a bite, the Jules Verne journal in her hand, as she considered how much to enter. This section was quite lengthy. She decided to include it all.  
  
*.*.*  
  
It is late afternoon. I can scarcely bear to write of where I am and what I now do. A day ago it would have been just another adventure. Today it is agony.  
  
We, Passepartout, Rebecca and I, hide next the Bonander townhouse, in an unused attic fortuitously placed. We observe who comes and who goes from that house. Rebecca has told us that Clarice's uncle, one Mabius Bonander, follows Count Gregory. Rebecca seeks to learn more of him. Clarice still breathes behind the door I see out this window. I stood down there just a few hours gone by. If I had but recognized her danger, I would never have left her alone!  
  
Rebecca listened sympathetically as I tried to convince her I should spirit Clarice away. I would use some excuse, I said. We'd go riding or shopping. Anywhere but there! I cried. She pointed out that Clarice was safe if our observation went unsuspected and if I took her away it could put all on alert. Finally I accepted as hard as it was.  
  
Rebecca sleeps, having cat-like made herself comfortable on the bare floor. Her heavy skirt serves as her blanket. Everything Rebecca wears seems to have a second purpose. Passepartout stands watch and I soon replace him. Jean has reported observing two arrivals, a tradesman at the back door and a fair-haired, humpbacked man at front. The tradesman only has left.  
  
I ought to sleep, but my heart lets me not. I shall write down this day as I usually do.  
  
Earlier, just a few short hours after I finally crawled into bed, I tumbled out again to answer a demanding knock at the door, hurrying lest the resounding thumps awake my landlady, a notoriously light sleeper. Jean stood on my landing precariously balancing a trunk strapped to a trolley. Miss Rebecca stood next to him. Drooping lids concealed Rebecca's eyes and her tightly pinched mouth invited no questions. She looked tired and, moreover, discomposed. I stood aside to permit them entry, conscious of my mostly disrobed state, although I rather think Rebecca little noticed.  
  
"Jules," she began, "I have a favor to ask of you. I need to store my trunks for a short while. A few days at most. May I impose? Please?" Passepartout stood in the background, also distraught, but awaiting my consent before bringing in the first trunk. As if I could refuse Rebecca! I was confused, of course, but willing to assist any adventure, and readily agreed. Quickly pulling on my shoes and shirt, I went to help Passepartout.  
  
While Jean and I hauled up the stairs a carpetbag and three more trunks emblazoned with the Fogg monogram, Rebecca opened the first trunk and withdrew some clothes. Early in our acquaintance I learned how casual Rebecca can be about disrobing, however, it remains a revelation whenever encountered. As Jean made coffee and I sliced cold bread, Rebecca stripped to a thin half chemise and donned her fighting outfight - a silky, clinging garment not unlike a man's underwear, over which she donned a leather girdle hung with her various weapons. Finally, as she was to mingle with Parisian citizens, she buttoned on a plush red skirt. The weight of all this must be considerable. Near thirty pounds, I judge. Perhaps it is one reason she exercises so often.  
  
"Now which of you will assuage my curiosity?" I asked as we all sat down to a light breakfast. "And where is Fogg?"  
  
Passepartout looked at Rebecca, a question in his eyes. She shook her head. "Mr. Fogg best tell. You ask him." Jean said, his voice harsh and tight. I stared at Passepartout, but his eyes avoided mine. He had neglected to name Fogg "master." I began to suspect a serious disagreement.  
  
Rebecca sipped coffee. She looked at me for a moment over the chipped rim of the cup. "Jules, I would ask another favor of you. Will you promise me to be steadfast in your friendship to Phileas?"  
  
"Of course I will, Rebecca. How can I not? But tell me, have you two been fighting again?" Rebecca's love for her cousin has more than once coaxed a promise from me I later regretted.  
  
She squeezed my hand but ignored my question. "Good," Rebecca said. "I don't want to worry about him while I'm on this mission." She dipped her crust in coffee to soften it (my larder was very bare this morning!) then told Jean and I of her latest assignment.  
  
As always it was fascinating. Last week British operatives intercepted a cryptic communiqué. Rebecca could not tell us the exact content, but based on it Sir Chatsworth had originally sent her to France to look for animals.  
  
"Animals?" I said. "What kind of animals? Horses? Dogs?"  
  
"Unusual animals. Extraordinary even. The communiqué spoke of an Austrian monk named Gregor Mendel who apparently is doing some fascinating work on heredity. We feared Mendel's theories had fallen into the League's hands and something monstrous resulted. After my trip to Auvergne, I know it may be something human or nearly so."  
  
"My God," was the only reply I managed.  
  
Having finished her repast, Rebecca stood up to leave. She picked up Jean's carpetbag from atop her trunks and offered it to him saying, "Do not follow me in this. It is not what you think. You must go back to Phileas. His life may depend on it."  
  
"Why worry you, after names he said?" Jean replied. "If he not apologize, I find new master or maybe go back to circus."  
  
"Please return to him. Please, dear man, for me?" Rebecca asked again.  
  
Passepartout made a face and said, "No, for today I go with you. Tomorrow, I tink about it. Let him make his own coffee for a while." He kissed Rebecca's cheek.  
  
I echoed Passepartout, "We all go with you, Rebecca. You also need someone to watch your back."  
  
My heart near stopped when she told us our destination, but Passepartout smiled, saying, "We will capture us a Baroness!" We are here, and I await what shall happen, not patiently, not easily, but I wait.  
  
Passepartout just straightened up. "It is my master!" he cries. Rebecca wakes straightaway and I must put down my writing. I'm sure action nears as danger generally follows Phileas about. Time to grasp the pistol Rebecca assigned me. Clarice, oh Clarice! Mon dieu nous protegent!  



	3. Chapter 3

*.*.*  
  
Sometime late during the past hour, M had walked through and bid Miss Moneypenny good night. The secretary hadn't even looked up, since she had just reached the part where Verne learns of Count Gregory's plan. The lights were dimming in some of the other offices. The evening fog would soon be creeping down London's crowded streets. Miss Moneypenny's mind, however, was still in Paris 140 years ago.  
  
She hesitated. There were three documents that covered the end of the mission. Which of the three should she use? Verne? No, too sad, almost unbearably so, while Rebecca's had returned to a "saw sub, sank same" writing style, perhaps to hide deep emotions. Phileas Fogg's entry, though very long, continued to reveal the man with his words. Phileas was rapidly replacing double oh seven in Miss Moneypenny's heart. She spread out Fogg's journal and began to type.  
  
*.*.*  
  
We are back on the Aurora, floating a thousand feet above the cold waters of the English Channel. The sun breaks the eastern horizon and sends brilliance to illuminate us this morning. I have seen Aurora as she must look this moment, a firebrand of orange floating against a gray-blue sky. All is silence except for my dirigible's usual creaks and groans. I run not the propeller as today's wind blows the direction desired.  
  
We are wind running before wind -- the poetry of this ship has charmed me every since I won it. It has become my home even more than the London house or Shillingworth Magna. It is my refuge, and I bring here those I would protect. Today they are gathered to me and I am content.  
  
Passepartout still sleeps in his cabin having taken last watch. Rebecca dozes on a bench here in the observation room. Verne lies with his head in her lap, asleep as well. Rebecca and Verne half reclined like that all this past night. Last evening she could not bear the bleakness in his eyes and told the boy we would always be there to love him, which quite naturally led to his outpouring of grief. His tears exhausted him. I envy Verne that. I have never been able to cry my losses.  
  
Cynara I count not a loss. Would that I had never met her. She almost cost me more than I can bear. She and that monster Count Gregory suit well each other. I'm sure she'll go far in the League.  
  
Had I not gone to the Bonander house yesterday . . . no, that path is false to follow. I did go, and all that passed cannot be repaired.  
  
Yesterday I sought Rebecca throughout Paris, at Verne's garret, the Hotel Royal she sometimes favors, and the hiding crannies she thinks I know not. I even went to Service headquarters and demanded they summon Rebecca forth. They had not her situation. She, Passepartout and even Verne could not be found. My heart lay most uneasy.  
  
Finally, I stood on the steps of the Bonander townhouse, more from recent habit than any true purpose. Perhaps I hoped to repair the breach with Cynara if I could find no other to mend.  
  
When Gordon, her butler, blocked my entry, I knew my worst fears realized. The surly, insolent thug attempted to toss me out the door. I knocked him unconscious to the carpet, and advanced rapidly into the house, cursing myself for once again going about unarmed. (Although Thompson revolvers do so spoil the line of one's coat!)  
  
I found Cynara in the parlor, a dark room in the back of house overlooking a sliver of dead garden. I burst into an extraordinary scene. Cynara's red-haired niece rested stiffly in a chair whilst the baroness and a hunchbacked man stood closer to me. The man held a pistol. It appeared he had been about to place it in Clarice's hand, but upon my sudden entry he turned it on me.  
  
"Ah, Cynara, is this Mr. Verne?" he asked.  
  
"Phileas! You shouldn't be here!" the Baroness exclaimed.  
  
"You bastard, let them go!" was my answering cry. Cynara looked taken aback and I shortly learned why. She was no innocent prisoner but the hunchback's compatriot.  
  
"Ah, Mr. Fogg, of course," the hunchback continued. "Well, I would have preferred Verne. However, I can use this intrusion to good advantage. I shall test my theory that a mesmerized subject can be persuaded to kill. Cynara, give Clarice the other pistol, if you please."  
  
Clarice had stared blankly ahead throughout this exchange. Under mesmerization, I realized. "Cynara!" I appealed to my erstwhile lover. But she replied not, and retrieving a second pistol began to wrap it with a soft settee pillow to muffle the report. Her face inclined away from me, but I could see the tightness of her mouth and knew no help would she offer.  
  
Now clear on where matters stood, I glanced about for some means of retreat or attack. I knew on the far side of the room near Miss Bonander a second door led to the kitchens. A lighted oil lamp stood on a table close at hand. What other possibilities? Could I leap through the window? Behind the settee? Back through the door I had entered? And how could I save Miss Clarice as well? With the hunchback sharply watching me, I would receive a bullet however I moved. And clearly also one if I waited. I tensed, ready to make my leap. But Rebecca's entrance through the far door, deus ex machina, forestalled my half-formed, desperate plan.  
  
That cousin of mine! Instinctive timing, a little known asset of the ideal agent, has always been one of Rebecca's strongest points. In it, she is damn near perfect.  
  
The balance of threat shifted dramatically in the parlor. The startled Cynara spun around and was about to fire on the intruding Rebecca, Passepartout and Jules, when I knocked her down from behind. Unfortunately, as she fell the lighted lamp fell also, and immediately an oily blaze cut me off from my cousin, my friends and Clarice.  
  
Amazingly Miss Bonander still sat rigidly quiet, the fresh blaze just licking at her feet. Verne tried to pull her up and away, but a lack of active cooperation hindered his effort so Passepartout sought to help him. Rebecca seemed to look for a way to my side through the flames. Meanwhile, the hunchbacked man had not stood idle. Whilst the attention of all had elsewhere focused, he had sidled around behind me to the hall door, a condition that I noticed too late.  
  
"Release Cynara!" the hunchback ordered, "or I shall start shooting you and your friends!"  
  
Thus threatened and unarmed, I stood back, and permitted the Baroness to struggle up. Her skirt hoops swung wildly about as she ran to her partner's side.  
  
A rising wall of flame and smoke almost hid Passepartout, Verne and Clarice from my sight. They must evacuate very shortly or risk being trapped by the fire. Of Rebecca, there was no sign.  
  
I began coughing as the roiling smoke reached my lungs.  
  
"What a shame!" the hunchback was saying to me, "now I cannot prove my theory! Oh well!" Raising his pistol he pulled off a shot that I easily dodged. Bending down I recovered the firearm Cynara had dropped, but by the time I straightened, she and the hunchback were gone. Passepartout and the others had disappeared in the smoke. I knew that my manservant's fireman skills would save them, in the meantime I had two miscreants to pursue.  
  
In the smoke-filled hall I found Rebecca, who had circled around through the kitchen. She pointed down the passage where a door was just closing a few feet away. When we arrived there, only walnut paneling we faced. A concealed door then. I fired a shot where I judged the mechanism to be. Luck was with me and the door sprung open. Beyond a dimly lit stairwell sank into Parisian earth.  
  
"An access to the sewer system!" Rebecca exclaimed and I nodded. We peered into the gloom, trying to distinguish shape or form. A miasma of stale air arose. Rebecca drew her lips tight into her mouth, an expression she uses when something has offended her nose. It did reek down there, but it would at least be an escape from the smoke. We both stepped down slowly, expecting an ambush, our revolvers at ready, our backs sliding along the moisture be-dewed walls.  
  
However, Cynara and her compatriot's interest lay in flight. Once underground, they disappeared. We sought them for what I judged to be a mile. At one point, Rebecca suggested we split up and pursue two of four possible branches, but I refused to let her out of my sight.  
  
When last I ventured those tunnels, we chased the mole machine of Verne's design. Although not long ago, it felt a lifetime. Verne no longer poses a question mark but ranks a close, trusted friend. Feeling nostalgic I sloshed through smelly sewage. Fortunately, sunlight leaked weakly through street drains or we might still be down there.  
  
"Phileas," Rebecca requested my attention, "I think we've lost them."  
  
We had no clue of direction or possible routes. "Well enough then, dear cousin," I answered. It was after all her case to pursue. Rebecca holstered her weapon and I thrust mine in a pocket and we clambered up the next access out to fresh air. Identifying our location, the intersection of Rue de L____ and Rue de M___, we headed back to the Bonander house, Jules and Passepartout.  
  
"The Bonanders are League, aren't they, Rebecca?" I asked.  
  
"Yes, League. I'm sorry you should have known," she was about to say more, but I stopped her. I wanted to make the apology I had so carefully rehearsed. I said, "No, stop, Rebecca. Listen to me for once, will you? I have something to say to you and I've waited all day."  
  
Her face iced up, "Speak, Phileas. I can imagine what's on your mind."  
  
"You can? Tell me then. I would be interested to know my thoughts."  
  
We stopped. Bypassers carefully circumnavigated us. Rebecca's unfeminine garb and our generally filthy state did not encourage closer acquaintance. Rebecca turned toward me, "You want me to return to the Aurora and forget this morning's disagreement."  
  
I said, "Well, I will admit that's a start." She made a sound and started to turn away. I seized her right wrist and detained her. She did not struggle. That surprised me. Generally, Rebecca detests being compelled. I placed in her hand the revolver from my pocket saying, "There is something more I would ask you. If I ever again say things as stupid as this morning, please take this pistol and shoot me. It would be less painful than the day I just spent. I've missed you so."  
  
Her quick, sweet smile answered my request for forgiveness, and I bent to give a cousinly kiss on the cheek. But rotating her head, Rebecca intercepted my mouth. I am not ashamed to say my heart hammered while our lips held together. "Oh Rebecca, my love," I whispered and caught her up close for a moment, until the offended stare of a female pedestrian put me off. Turning quickly away, I pointed at the skyline, "I think we're close. Look there's smoke from a fire!"  
  
When we reached the former Bonander residence, it was to find it completely involved in flames. The household's escaped servants and a crowd of onlookers milled in the streets. Fire wagons and firemen made hopeless battle against the well-advanced blaze, whilst drifting smoke hazed the air all about.  
  
Far down the block Verne knelt on the cobbled street cradling an indistinct form. "Not Passepartout!" I shouted and began to run, fear speeding my feet.  
  
But it was not my manservant, whom I later learned was exercising his firefighting skills alongside old friends. Verne held the small, lifeless body of Miss Clarice. The bullet I had so skillfully avoided had instead struck her. Blood streaked the dark dress she wore, and her head lolled against Verne's chest.  
  
I was caught in a mixture of guilt and relief, relief that Passepartout lay not there and guilt for my part in yet another meaningless tragedy. I recollected Verne's smitten expression last night when Clarice was first introduced, their shy handholding with heads close together, his desperate earlier effort to save her from today's fire. Fate had dealt Jules a hand I recognized well, as Saratoga Browne was lost to me in much the same way. Verne's eyes stared emptily at the fire and people moving about. He rocked back and forth just a little. He seemed not to know we were there.  
  
I knelt and wrapped Verne's shoulders with my arm. "Verne, man, they eluded us. I'm sorry." Rebecca silently stood by, her eyes clouding with tears.  
  
Verne gently lowered the slim little body to the ground. We stood up together, and he began to push me about, repeatedly smacking me on the shoulders, saying, "Damn you! Damn you to bloody hell! She's dead! She loved me and she's dead! And you couldn't even catch her murderer!" And more in that vein. His lips were drawn away from his teeth. His eyes flashed helpless rage. Not wanting to hurt him, I backed away with each push. If it hadn't been so sad, it might have been amusing to watch, the bantam cockerel Verne pushing about me, a good half foot taller.  
  
Finally, having said enough, Verne returned to Miss Clarice's body and with some effort picked her up. At the medical wagon the surgeon relieved him of his sad burden and stretched her out next another, the body of a short plump older man.  
  
Rebecca bent over this second corpse. "Mabius Bonander," she said, and indicating his blood soaked jacket, "bullet to the heart, I would guess."  
  
"The League man, hmm?" I commented and asked her if she had recognized our elusive hunchbacked quarry, but she shook her head and answered, "Not a clue. A free agent though, I saw no cortical stud."  
  
Verne had begun to walk away. Indicating his retreating back, I said to my cousin, "Stop him, will you, Rebecca? I don't think he'll listen to me. Persuade him to go to London with us. Please."  
  
Rebecca trotted after Verne. After she left, Passepartout came running up. He was preposterously glad to see me. "I thought you and Miss Rebecca burn to crisp!" he cried, happily thumping my back.  
  
I smiled and answered, "No, not crisp, only medium well, Passepartout."  
  
By then Rebecca returned, Verne on her arm, a very shaken, sad man. He stretched out a hand to me and said, "Sorry, Fogg. I didn't mean any of that. You did your best." It hurt me to see him so cast down.  
  
"Do not regard it, Verne," I told him and clasped the proffered hand, perhaps a little too heartily. Then Verne's Gallic blood manifested and he hugged me tightly for the space of a moment. "Do not regard it, man," I repeated. "We are as brothers, you know."  
  
*.*.*  
  
Miss Moneypenny rubbed her eyes and was surprised to find them a bit damp with unshed tears. She sat quietly for a moment, looking out at the velvety gray fog swirling in the light from her window. It was late, and the night watchman, Harold, had already looked in on her twice. Like everyone at headquarters he knew of her long-time crush on double oh seven. He chuckled at her late hours and said, "Well, he's coming in, is he? You won't get him home any faster by muddling around here so late. Best go home yourself."  
  
"Oh, I will soon," she replied. "I've just a few more pages to go. Could you come back in a half hour, please? I'll be ready then."  
  
If Miss Moneypenny didn't complete this chest tonight, she would never fall asleep. The final snippet came from the captured League journal of Doctor Garridan, but it was dated almost eight months after the Fogg entry she'd just typed. The Doctor's words chilled her.  
  
*.*.*  
  
My successful return with the pregnant Baroness Cynara Bonander greatly advanced my position here in the League of Darkness. Count Gregory defers all medical questions to me.  
  
Cynara wears a special cortical lobe stud. With it not only does Count Gregory transmit his every sensation, but the Baroness reciprocates as well. The Count desired to experience the growth and birth of this baby. He has great plans for it in the League of Darkness and already declares it his adoptive son. (And fortunately, from what I can judge it will be male.) If the babe emulates the cunning of his Fogg sire, our efforts will be well served. Daily Cynara reclines next the Count's chair, caressing whichever of his arms hang free. Her belly swells roundly, near ripe for picking. Soon this project will reach a new stage. Until then I will continue my studies. A new field called phrenology shows promise. I am concentrating there.  
  
*.*.*  
  
That was it. Miss Moneypenny had entered the last document in the chest. Outside the Big Ben chimes rang midnight faintly. Harold peeked in at the door. Miss Moneypenny waved and said she was done. He waited patiently while she put on her raincoat and grabbed her bag. Per Secret Service regulations, the night watchman had to escort her off the floor.  
  
Miss Moneypenny vowed that tomorrow she would make the dead storage floor her first stop. She definitely wanted to find the remaining Fogg chests before anyone else claimed them.  
  
As they walked toward the elevator, Harold asked, "And when is James due in, ma'am?"  
  
Her mind still in Nineteenth Century Paris, Miss Moneypenny's brow wrinkled and she said, "James who?"  
  
FINIS.  
Page 9  
  
  
  



End file.
